Pulse
by ConsultingDetectiveOfGallifrey
Summary: Sherlock is kidnapped and poisoned. Barely breathing and pulse slowed to almost nothing, will the doctors be able to save him in time? Or will they even realize he's still alive?
1. Ch 1 Capture

**Hello everyone! Just a few quick notes before we begin. This is my first multi-chapter fic. _Yay me!_ And constructive criticism is always appreciated. This story will probably end up being about 5 chapters long, and I will attempt to update them regularly. Key word there being _attempt_.**

**In addition, I am American, and Sherlock takes place in England. I have tried to use the correct terminology whenever possible, however I'm sure I've missed some. So if any of you happen to be british, or at least know more about it than me, feel free to let me know if you see any mistakes on how a brit would word things.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, nor do I make any money off of this.**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes walked along the busy streets of London. His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar face.

Spying a member of his homeless network, he sidled over.

"Spare change?" The young man asked.

The detective pulled out a folded bill, photo hidden inside. As he handed it to the boy, he leaned in close.

"I need to find this man. Spread the word. If anyone sees him, find me immediately."

"Thank you, sir." the boy nodded, signaling he understood.

Task done, the detective walked off, back in the direction of Baker St. There was nothing more to do but wait. It wouldn't be long before someone caught sight of the man, who was responsible for two murders and multiple robberies. Until then, he would see if Lestrade had any decent cases.

Focused in his thoughts, Sherlock ran straight into another pedestrian.

Muttering a quick apology, John had been telling him that was the right thing to do, he started to walk away only to feel a sharp pain in his neck.

Immediately realizing his mistake, he attempted to pull the needle out of his neck and push away his attacker. However the drug was already taking effect, and he found himself losing his balance.

As he slumped into the arms of his assailant, he yelled as loud as he could and kicked desperately, trying to draw attention.

The man holding him glanced apologetically at the nearby people.

"Sorry, he's had a little too much to drink." He then tossed the detective limply into a waiting car.

Sherlock struggled to keep his eyes open, but eventually succumbed to the sedative.

* * *

_Slight pain in neck...sitting down...someplace hard...but not the ground. A chair then. _

The thoughts running through the detective's head were noticeably slower than normal. He opened his eyes.

_Vision blurred...jumped on street...needle in neck...conclusion? Drugged and kidnapped._

As he attempted to move his hands, he realized that they were tied behind his back. A few seconds of wriggling proved the bonds to be strong and secure.

It took another few moments for his visions to clear up enough to survey the room he was in. He could still feel the effects of the sedative. His head felt foggy and slow.

He was in a basement of sorts, that much was clear. As to where, he didn't know.

The only window, a small square, high set in the wall. The amount of light coming in told him it was either late evening or early morning, which he could not tell. If he had been clear headed, he would have known. As it was, he cursed the sedative for fogging his thoughts.

There was one door, he was facing it. It was metal and locked. Even if he could get free he wouldn't be able to escape that way.

Before he could make anymore observations, the door opened.

"Hello, Sherly!" A voice sang cheerfully. "It's so nice of you to come and play."

"Moriarty" Sherlock growled.

"Uh uh uh, play nice with Daddy." The consulting criminal's tone sickened the detective.

"Why have you brought me here?"

"That would be telling now wouldn't it?"

"Yes it would, but you'll tell me anyway-"

Sherlock was cut off by a sharp blow to his temple. His head swung to the side and his vision swam.

"It's not nice to be rude to Daddy. That can have very dire consequences." Moriarty was glaring at him now, before his face changed, as if a switch had been thrown, back to one of delight.

"A little game, with you and your little friends. To see if they're as smart as you seem to believe. It goes a little something like this."

Moriarty held up a syringe in front of his face. Sherlock stared at it, face carefully blank, as he tried to deduce what it contained.

"This," Moriarty announced with great pleasure, "Is tetrodotoxin"

"You're going to kill me." Sherlock deadpanned.

"Oh, no. At least, not yet"

"Then what, pray tell, is the point?"

"See, I'm going to give this too you, and then I'm going to leave you here for your little pet to find."

Sherlock scoffed, "If it's not a fatal dose, then they're plenty capable of administering proper care and nursing me back to health."

"Not if they don't even try."

Sherlock stared at Moriarty, attempting to follow his line of thinking. His face remained even.

"You don't get it do you Sherlock? I'm disappointed in you." Moriarty frowned. "Oh well, you're going to die soon anyway." His face changed once more into a gleeful smirk. "This isn't regular tetrodotoxin. No, I've made a few adjustments of my own. This can mimic death closer than any other poison out there. They won't even be able to feel a pulse."

The detective was beginning to see where this was going, but remained impassive, buying time. "No matter how much you slow my heart, if it is still beating, then the heart monitors will be able to detect it."

"But they won't ever use one. Once they find you without a pulse and resuscitation attempts fail, they'll declare you DOA. They'll never know. After all, there's no use hooking up a heart rate monitor to a dead body."

Moriarty took this opportunity to lean in close to Sherlock, lowering his voice as if to tell him a secret. "And you know what happens when a body arrives with an unknown cause of death."

Sherlock swallowed, and for the first time his mask wavered as he realized the full extent of Moriarty's plan.

A dead body comes in, cause of death unknown. Standard procedure: full autopsy.

According to them, he'd be dead. But, as long as Moriarty hadn't changed that aspect of the poison, he'd still be at least partially conscious. Conscious when they cut him open. He'd never survive it. After all, there's never been any need to be careful with what you damage on a dead body.

Seeing the brief look of horror on the detective's face made Moriarty grin wider. "That's right. After the blood tests, they'll see the poison, but they'll be too late. Just imagine the look on their face when they realize that I wasn't the one that killed you, they were."

With that, he jabbed the needle deep into the detective's neck. Then watched as Sherlock struggled for a second, before slumping limply in his bonds.

The last thought on Sherlock's mind before he slipped into darkness, was the look of guilt that would be on John's face when he realized that Sherlock was dead for a second and final time, because of him.

* * *

**So there we have it, chapter 1. I'd love to know what you thought of it. Please R&amp;R.**


	2. Ch 2 Found

**Hello everyone. I'm back. This took me a bit longer than I had hoped because I've been sick(and still am). But don't worry, as far as I know, germs cannot be transferred across the internet. Yet. Dun dun dun...**

**Once again, constructive criticism is appreciated, as well as any corrections on the British english.**

**So now, without further ado, I present you with Chapter 2. Prepare for a lot of angst towards the end.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, nor do I make any money off of anything.**

* * *

"Sherlock! I got some more milk! A thank you would be appreciated!" John Watson called as he entered the flat. Earlier that morning he had discovered that one of Sherlock's mold cultures had gotten too close to the milk. After scolding his irresponsible flatmate, John had decided that he might as well pick up some groceries anyway.

Now, as there was no reply; he hadn't really expected one, he made his way to the kitchen. He placed the milk in the fridge, this time making sure all the petri dishes of various molds were pushed to the opposite side.

With a sigh, he glanced around the living room looking once more to see if he had missed the detective curled up somewhere. He hadn't.

John gave a quick search of the rest of the flat and came to the conclusion that Sherlock had left unannounced. Again.

Though he supposed he should be grateful for the time alone to actually get stuff done for once, without a self-proclaimed sociopath stealing his laptop, making dangerous chemical explosions, or attempting to poison the neighbor's cat again; John couldn't help the feeling of dread that settled in the bottom of his stomach at the thought of Sherlock in possible danger.

"Relax, John," the doctor told himself, figuring no one was around to hear, "Sherlock goes out alone all the time and he's always fine."

_Except the time when he almost got himself killed by knocking on a serial killer's door without bothering to ask anyone for backup._

"That was one time, and I lectured him long enough that something must have gotten into that thick skull of his. I'm sure that if he needs help he'll text me," John finished the thought by glancing at the skull that Sherlock kept on the mantle. The skull stared back at him.

"Talking to a bloody skull! People are right, I am starting to lose it." John glared at the skull, as if it was the skull's fault that the man had started talking to it.

With a sigh, John walked into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea to soothe his nerves. He got out a cup, carefully checking it for any hazards and was pleasantly surprised to find it clean. He then reached for the tea.

Upon opening the box, he was confused to see a suspicious white powder intermixed with the dark tea leaves. Frowning, John sniffed experimentally at the powder and was immediately sent reeling backwards at the strong, chemical smell.

"Sherlock!" John cursed his flat mate. Trust Sherlock to ruin the tea. The one thing that kept John sane.

Now unable to have a cuppa, John angrily made his way back to the living room. He sat down and grabbed his laptop, opening up his blog and glaring needlessly at the screen.

After a few minutes, the anger began to recede, leaving behind that same feeling that something was about to go wrong. With a sigh, he finally decided to text Sherlock. Just to ease his mind.

**Where are you? -JW**

He then sat back to wait for a reply. He would be waiting for a long time.

* * *

When John's mobile finally buzzed, it startled him.

"Finally you decide you need my help" he muttered to himself as he glanced at the screen.

**Hello John. It looks like Sherlock won't be coming home tonight. He's a bit tied up. Don't worry though, I'll take good care of him. -M**

John paled. They hadn't heard anything since the message that had aired over every screen. In fact, he was beginning to hope that it had been a hoax. But now, there was no denying it. Moriarty was back, and he had Sherlock.

John closed his eyes, slowly breathing in and out. _Think calm. Breathe in...and out..._

When he opened his eyes, he knew what to do.

Looking back down at his phone, he sent a quick text to Mycroft.

**Help. Sherlock has been kidnapped by Moriarty -JW**

Almost immediately, there was a response.

**There will be a car in front of your flat in 15 minutes. -MH**

John sighed, Mycroft should be able to take care of it.

* * *

John watched anxiously out of the window as the car pulled up to the abandoned warehouse. This was it. This was where Sherlock was being held. He only hoped they weren't too late.

About twenty MI6 agents got out of the following vehicles. John insisted that he go in with them. Mycroft knew better than to refuse.

Though he insisted on coming with, John understood that these were professionals and allowed them to lead the way through the building. They scanned the whole layout, finding no one. Not a trace to indicate Moriarty had been there.

John was beginning to lose hope when an agent called that he had found a stairwell to a basement floor. They walk cautiously down the steps. At the bottom was a heavy metal door. It was locked.

John felt his heart hammer in his chest from the suspense as the agents instructed him to stand back. After a few experimental kicks, the lead agent called back for someone to get a battering ram.

It seemed as though hours passed before the man returned with a hydraulic battering ram, when in reality it was only a couple of minutes. The agents were quick and efficient as they set up the tool, aiming it just below the door latch.

_Thud._

The ram hit the door.

_Thud. Crack._

The door began to give way.

_Thud._

One more time…

_Thud. Bang._

The door flew open.

John got his first glance inside the room. A figure slumped motionless, tied to a chair. John felt his heart skip a beat. Before the others could move, the doctor was rushing into the room, towards the unconscious man.

As he neared the man, John gasped with horror, Sherlock was still, too still. He stopped in front of the limp detective, fingers reaching out for a pulse.

When he felt none, John turned, horrified, to the agents.

"He doesn't have a pulse! Help me get him untied!" John said, attempting to remain professionally unattached and failing miserably.

One agent pulled out a knife, using it to cut the ropes securing the detective, while the others called for paramedics.

John caught the detective as he slumped to the ground. He laid him down gently and frantically began CPR.

Everything else faded away as he focused on reviving Sherlock. _1...2...3...4...5...6..._

People rushed around him, voices blending together into white noise. _13...14...15...16...17...18..._

Somebody asked him if he needed help. He didn't respond. _25...26...27...28...29...30..._

_Breathe...Come on Sherlock...Breathe!_

_1...2...3...4...5...6... _Repeat pattern until victim becomes responsive.

_19...20...21...22...23...24... _John lost count of how long he had been doing CPR.

"John," a hand rested on his shoulder. _Breathe...breathe..._

"John!" The voice was louder now. _1...2...3...4...5...6..._

"John! Stop!" _No! He couldn't stop. 7...8...9..10-_

"It's no use, John." Hands were pulling him back now. He stared at the owner of the voice. "We're too late John, he's gone,"

Mycroft said.

"No," his voice croaked, and he became aware of the tears streaked down his face.

"I'm sorry John," Mycroft's face, which had always been emotionless in the most emotional of situations, was beginning to show signs that his calm facade was breaking.

John turned back to Sherlock's body, staring as if by pure will alone he could bring the man back. He knew in his brain that it was impossible, but his heart kept hoping that maybe if they just waited, Sherlock would take a breath.

_He can't be dead. It's another trick, it has to be! Sherlock's gonna wake up and scold me for falling for it any minute. _

John continued to stare, oblivious to the others as they began to leave. Oblivious to Mycroft, as he turned away from everyone to wipe away a single tear. Even as the paramedics came and took away the body, John continued to stare at the spot, hoping he would wake up to find it was all a dream.

Eventually he was led away, and was vaguely aware of someone wrapping something around his shoulders.

He barely noticed as he was gently shoved into a cab, and stared blankly out the window as the streets flashed by.

As the cab stopped, he subconsciously recognized the place, and required no extra encouragement to stumble his way up the stairs.

Arriving at his destination, he collapsed onto his bed and fell into a deep, uneasy sleep.

* * *

**Urgh! John! I'm so sorry for doing this to you! *sniffle* But it must be done for the sake of the plot.**

**Please let me know what you think in the Review box.**


	3. Ch 3 Darkness

**Hello again. This chapter was very difficult to write, as it is all from Sherlock's perspective, and from his perspective nothing much is happening. I'm still not 100% satisfied with it, but I didn't want to keep you waiting much longer. **

**As always, constructive criticism and any corrections on my British English are greatly appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Does it look like I make money off of this? **

* * *

Inky blackness swirled around him. He seemed to be floating in a pitch black void of nothingness.

It was not the kind of nothingness that one gets from dreamless sleep. No. He was fully aware and lost in a darkness one can only experience if completely blind and deaf.

And paralyzed. For Sherlock realized that in a disconnected way, he could feel his body. It was faint, and he could tell nothing more than a deep coldness that seemed to settle into his bones.

_Am I dead? No. Poisoned. _

Sherlock recalled the events leading up to this darkness.

_Tetrodotoxin. TTX. Molecular formula: C11H17N3O8. Deadly neurotoxin produced by bacteria and found in various species of pufferfish. _

Moriarty had poisoned him. Just enough to mimic death without actually killing him. A highly calculated move. Just a drop more and he'd be dead by now. A drop less and he'd be visibly breathing.

_In same amount, tetrodotoxin is approximately 100 times more deadly than potassium cyanide. The average lethal dose for a human is 1/2 milligrams. _

The darkness was suffocating. The lack of sensory input was maddening and so he held tight to the facts that he did know.

_TTX works by inhibiting the passage of sodium ion signals through nerves, cutting off communication between the brain and muscles. This causes paralysis of the body, including the diaphragm, causing death by asphyxiation. _

Obviously he wasn't dead yet, so his lungs had to be at least somewhat functioning.

_If a victim survives 24 hours, with proper care they will usually recover without lasting damage. _

How long had it been? Though he was slowly becoming more conscious and aware of his predicament, he still had no way of how long he had been unconscious.

_Most victims remain conscious and even lucid, though paralyzed, up until death. _

That didn't seem right. His slowly regaining consciousness didn't fit with the symptoms. Then again, Moriarty had mentioned changing something.

"_This isn't regular tetrodotoxin. No, I've made a few adjustments of my own. This can mimic death closer than any other poison out there. They won't even be able to feel a pulse."_

He had fallen unconscious almost immediately. Moriarty must have added a fast acting sedative to keep him quiet while the tetrodotoxin took effect. However, Moriarty would have wanted him to suffer as much as possible.

_Victims remain fully conscious, aware of everything going on around them. _

Moriarty would want him conscious and aware when they did the autopsy.

_At the current rate, my senses should grow in strength over the next few...minutes?...hours?_

With a start, Sherlock realized that even since he had become aware of his thoughts, he still had no idea how long he had been lying there.

_Lying? Yes, I'm lying down somewhere. I can feel the pressure on my back. But where?_

Before he had been poisoned, he had been sitting in a chair. Now he was lying down. Conclusion: someone had moved him.

_I don't remember being moved, but anything could have happened when I was unconscious._

Had Moriarty moved him? No, that didn't make sense. He had wanted John to find him, why not just leave him where he sat? It would have been easier to leave him there, where he had struggled before being drugged instead of attempting to reposition him realistically somewhere else. Not that Moriarty couldn't have done that... It just wasn't like the criminal.

_If it wasn't Moriarty, them someone must have found me. But who? John would have found me eventually, but had someone else gotten to me first? I need more data!_

Concentrating, he reached out as far as he could, the way he would if he had been in his mind palace and wanted to return to his body.

_Come on... Come oooonnnn- Yes!_

He was laying on icy metal, it pressed into his skin and the cold seeped into his bones. Everything remained dark and silent, but now he could actually feel that his eyes were closed. He was laying perfectly still and-

_Oh god- I'm not breathing. Why am I not breathing? I'm supposed to be breathing!_

The mental panic attack was the strangest panic attack he had ever experienced. Despite the huge amount of panicked chemical signals his brain was sending out, his body did not react in the slightest, and where he should have been hyperventilating, his chest remained annoyingly still.

_Calm down. I've survived this long, so I'm not about to die of asphyxiation any time soon. _

It was a weird feeling. He couldn't feel himself breathing breathing, yet his head remained clear, and after the initial panic, he realized he didn't feel the need to get more oxygen anyway. Though a curious sensation, he decided to push the issue to the back of his mind and focus on the problem at hand.

_Now then, to address the issue of where I am. I'm laying down on a flat piece of metal. It's cold, very cold. I can feel the metal all across my back. Am I naked? Yes. Naked, metal, cold. Conclusion: In the refrigerator of a morgue. _

Before he had time to process the information more or come up with a plan, he heard a noise. It was faint, a squeaking thud like someone opening a door, but after so much silence, it was unmistakable.

_Someone's coming. I've got to try and move or make a noise, something to let them know I'm not dead. _

He struggled, attempting to open his mouth to make a noise. His body remained still.

There was another noise, louder this time, and he felt a rush of warm air over his body. He felt himself be moved, rolled outward.

_They're taking me out. I don't have much time!_

He could hear a muffled voice, talking near him, though he couldn't understand any words.

He concentrated on the voice, trying to hear what they were saying.

"This is...autopsy...Sherlock Holmes..."

_No. I'm not dead! You idiot! Can't you see that I'm not dead?_

Of course they had no way of knowing. He knew from the start that no one would realize the truth, but that didn't stop him from mentally screaming at the idiocy of the people around him.

"Outward appearance... needle marks..." The voice was familiar, hovering just on the edge of his mind. "I... for signs... poison... first incision..."

He focused his mind. All of his energy went towards his hand, willing it to twitch.

He felt something sharp rest against his sternum. His panic passed the point of logic.

_No! No! John! Help me! Please! Anyone! Please help me! Don't! You can't! Molly don't!_

The scalpel cut into his skin.

* * *

**Please don't hate me. This story isn't over yet, I promise. And the cliffhanger was necessary. **

**See that review box down there? If you type something in it, it may motivate me to update sooner. **


	4. Ch 4 Too Late

**Hello everyone. I apologize for taking so long with this chapter. I encountered my first real case of writer's block since starting this story, and most of this chapter was written yesterday and this morning when I finally had the inspiration. This chapter is the shortest so far, but I feel that it gets the point across. There will only be one more chapter after this, but it'll probably be the longest.**

**Just a fair warning: Prepare for a lot of angst and such. Also, I hope I wrote Molly okay, cause I really had a hard time with her character. **

**As always, constructive criticism is appreciated, and please correct me on any British English.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, no matter how much I wish to.**

* * *

_The plastic chair was uncomfortable. The man sitting in it appeared equally uncomfortable, sitting up stiffly._

_The waiting room was quiet. Empty except the lone man. It was late, everyone else had already gone home. But the man stayed, waiting for one late shifted mortician to share their results._

_Eventually another man walked into the room. He was dressed in a full suit, and held a black umbrella in his hand. _

_The umbrella man nodded to the sitting man, "John," he greeted. _

_John looked up, staring blankly at Mycroft. He knew they were both waiting for the same thing. _

_If he had felt any better, he would have offered for Mycroft to sit down, but the man would have declined anyway. He preferred to stand. _

_They sat, and stood, respectively, in relative silence for a long while, both lost in their own thoughts. The only sound was the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. _

_Finally, the door to the waiting room creaked open. A woman walked in. She was wearing a lab coat, and she looked very sad. _

_"Mister Holmes, and John, thank you for coming." She said, motioning for them to follow her. John stood, stiffly and painfully, and limped slowly towards her._

_"Molly," Mycroft spoke spoke, "you have the results for the autopsy?" It was said almost as a statement, rather than a question._

_"Yes," Molly's cheeks bore evidence of tears, but her face was stoic, a mask hiding her distress. __"I did the autopsy, and there were signs of a poison. I'll have to wait for the test results to know what kind, but-" she paused to clear her throat, "but there's something I need to tell you."_

_Both men stared at her, one with emotion written across his face, the other unreadable._

"_What did you find?" Mycroft prompted._

_"Sherlock, he-" her voice broke, and she started again, "when you found him, Sherlock wasn't dead. I- It's too late now, but if we had known, we- we could have saved him."_

* * *

John sat up, jerking upright. He was breathing harshly, covered in sweat. It was dark, and John's mind was still lost in what he had seen. He took several gasping breaths, looking frantically around the room.

He was sitting in his bed, sheets twisted around his legs. The digital clock on his bedside table said it was 1:30 in the morning.

It wasn't real. _But what if it was? _

John's eyes widened. It was all just a dream.

_But what if Sherlock's not really dead? _

That made no sense, how could he not be dead? John had felt his lack of pulse, he had performed CPR.

_He's faked it before. _But last time, he had only felt the lack of pulse for a few seconds before the other people had pulled him away.

Sherlock had laid there, no pulse on his carotid artery, not breathing, for at least a half hour. How could that possibly be faked?

There was no reasonable explanation, and yet, John couldn't help wondering: _what if?_

He had to know. If there was even the tiniest chance, he had to try.

_The autopsy!_ It was supposed to happen tonight, Molly often worked late shifts. He might still have time.

Face set with a frantic determination, John got out of bed. He didn't bother getting dressed, simply throwing on a jacket before racing out of the flat.

He went down the stairs two at a time and ran out the door, slamming it behind him. His cane, which had become needed once more after that horrible night, lay abandoned, leaning against the bed.

Outside, the normally busy city was much subdued, as most people were at home sleeping.

John spun around, looking desperately for a cab. There were none around. John started running.

The few pedestrians he met were brushed past without so much as a sorry. He had only one goal: to get to St. Bart's Hospital.

And so he ran, ignoring anything that might threaten to distract him.

When he got to the hospital, he barged through the doors. Bart's was not technically open, but there were still several employees working late. The lone man sitting at the front desk recognized John from his and Sherlock's frequent visits and didn't question him as he ran down the hallway towards the morgue.

He had walked the same path hundreds of times, trailing after his long-strided flatmate. But this time he was alone, and his purpose was both more urgent and morbid.

As John threw open the doors to the morgue, he was met with a sight that would haunt him for months.

Sherlock's body lay on the metal table. Molly stood over him, plastic gloves holding tightly onto a scalpel and sliding it into his flesh.

Molly looked up, mid-incision, as John flew through the doors.

"STOP!" He screamed.

* * *

**Will Sherlock survive? Or will it truly be too late? If you wanna find out how the story ends, I'd suggest leaving a review. It just might motivate me to update faster.**


	5. Ch 5 Awake

**Hello everyone. I don't have much to say about this chapter other than the fact that I am so sorry that it's been so long since I've updated. Life's been pretty hectic lately, with finals coming up, personal issues, not to mention the fact that I've been spending more time on my artwork have all combined so that I haven't had much time to write. But here it is, the final chapter of Pulse, also the longest chapter, so I hope it makes up for it.**

**Constructive criticism is always appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I do, however, own a drawing I made of Sherlock.**

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

It was the first thing he became aware of. A sound both insistent and piercing, yet even and rhythmic, never straying from it's pre-determined pattern.

It was the kind of noise that could be regarded as either soothing and relaxing, or unbearably annoying.

For him, it was the latter. The noise was too steady, too even, too boring.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

It grated against his nerves. He willed it to stop, to change, anything that wasn't that same exact beeping over and over.

There. In response to his frustration, the beeping sped up.

_Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. _

Not much of a change, but an improvement none the less.

Then there was a voice, "Sherlock! Can you hear me?"

He knew that voice. He heard it everyday, reprimanding him, praising him, and just generally talking.

"What's the matter with him?" The voice asked, and he felt a strange urge to let the owner of the voice know that he was okay.

_Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep._

He had to open his eyes.

The light was blinding, causing him to immediately shut them tighter. Even then, the light still streamed past, assaulting him with almost physical pain.

He groaned. There were several voices now, overlapping, adding to the already overwhelming noise. None were as comforting as the first.

_Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. _

"He is showing signs of distress...possible nightmares...could wake up-"

"Sherlock," the comforting voice was back again, "you've got to wake up."

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

He tried again, voice hoarse, but understandable.

_Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. _

"John," he said, "Turn off that infernal machine."

"Tell me everything that happened." Sherlock sat propped up in the hospital bed. He was feeling much better, having convinced the worried doctors to turn off the heart monitor. "I am aware that Moriarty baited you, most likely using my phone, which was taken when I was kidnapped, and that you eventually found me in the warehouse where I was being kept. You thought me dead, and I was sent to the morgue. Based on your relief at seeing me, I can assume that you were fooled for quite a while. I also know that you cut it very close in finally figuring it out," He paused to glare disapprovingly at John, "I was aware of my surroundings while in the morgue, as well as when the dissection began. However I soon faded from consciousness and I am unaware of what happened after that event. Based on the amount of pain currently radiating from my chest, I estimate that Molly succeeded with a three inch incision before you stopped her."

John blanched at the thought of Sherlock being conscious throughout his ordeal.

"Um, yes," he said, "I'm guessing you want me to start from the beginning?"

"Obviously," came the reply, and John found himself relieved that Sherlock was not only alive, but also back to his usual snarkiness.

"Well," he began, settling back in his chair in preparation of the long explanation to follow, "At first, I just thought you were being a git, refusing to text me back, but then I started to get suspicious…"

He spoke for a long while, recounting the events of the last few days. John attempted to recall as many details as possible, even if they seemed insignificant, knowing that Sherlock may find them of use. Said detective, for the most part, seemed satisfied, sitting silently, except for the occasional question of clarification. However, when John got to the part about his dream, Sherlock just had to interrupt.

"You had a dream? About me not being dead?" He asked, seeming not able to wrap his head around the concept.

John sighed, "Yes Sherlock, most people have dreams."

"Yes, but dreams are simply the subconscious part of the brain continuing to respond to previous stimuli gathered throughout the day. Something must have triggered you to have that dream. Something must have hinted you towards the conclusion of me not being dead."

John blinked. He had never considered why he might have had the dream, only been glad that he had.

"I don't know." He admitted, "I guess I was just thinking of the last time...I was praying that it wasn't real, that you had tricked us, tricked me..." John choked, overwhelmed with emotion.

Sherlock looked bored, "Moving on," he said, tired of the sentiment.

John glared at him. He muttered something nasty under his breath which Sherlock heard perfectly well, but decided to ignore. Knowing it was pointless to expect any less insensitivity from the sociopath, John decided to continue his story.

"Whatever the cause was, that dream really put me on edge. It was the middle of the night, I should have just gone back to sleep, but I kept thinking that maybe it could be true. I didn't have any proof, and anyone else would have said I was crazy. But if I hadn't been so determined to check, you wouldn't be sitting here now." He paused to glance at Sherlock, hoping for some reaction to his words. He was sorely disappointed.

"I ran all the way to Bart's. It kinda reminds me of our first case together, running through the streets, dodging traffic. Of course it wasn't quite the same, this time I didn't jump any rooftops," He chuckled slightly at the memory, but at Sherlock's pointed look, he pulled himself back on track. "When I got there, Bart's was closed, but there were still a few people there, including Molly. I got to the morgue just in time. You were laid out on the table, and Molly was starting the autopsy."

"Details John!" Sherlock interrupted, seeming more interested now that he was involved.

John barely skipped a beat, "She had her scalpel mid-incision when I got there. I yelled for her to stop, and I think she was so surprised that she stopped immediately. She turned to look at me, and asked what I was doing there."

"What did you say in reply? I need it exactly, word for word."

"I don't remember!" John cried, exasperated, "I was frantic okay, I probably babbled something about you not being dead and that we needed to check for sure. Molly thought I was crazy, but she was sympathetic. Your 'death' impacted her a lot too, you know."

The detective snorted, "I'm sure she's fine. She's a pathologist, she deals with death everyday."

John just stared, not sure how he could possibly not think that someone you saw everyday dying was different than the deaths of random strangers.

"Anyway," he continued, deciding to ignore it for now, "After I explained a bit that it could be possible, there are ways to fake death, you've done it before, I managed to convince her to at least humor me. I was quite horrified, I mean, you looked dead, and had a three inch gash along your sternum. At first, I simply took your pulse again, hoping that something might have changed, but there wasn't anything. I convinced her to wheel a heart monitor over from another department, and hooked it up to you, hoping for the best. We hooked it up and waited, it took a moment, but then the machine recognized a heartbeat. It was barely there, but we knew you were alive. Molly was quite horrified at what she had been about to do. She had to step out for a minute, I probably should have checked to see that she was okay, but I was just so relieved that I just stood there for a while. I was in shock, but then I realized that though you were alive, I had no way of knowing what was wrong with you or if you would be able to recover."

"Obviously I did recover." Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

"Well yes, but only because I called Molly back and she did some blood work to find out what was wrong while I stitched you up. We found the toxin in your bloodstream and figured what to do from there. Turns out that Molly knows a toxicologist that was working late who was able to help us out. After that, it was a lot of paperwork and explaining everything to a lot of people that I'm sure you don't care about." He glanced at Sherlock, who confirmed his hunch with a simple nod. "When all that was done, we finally got you admitted to the proper part of Bart's. That was two days ago, you've been unconscious up until now, and Dear God am I glad you're awake."

Sherlock hummed in what might have been agreement, closing his eyes and steepling his hands under his chin.

John stared at him for a minute. Though he had slept for the past 48 hours, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin looked gaunter and paler than normal, giving him an almost corpse-like appearance. He was obviously still sick, but the doctors had said that he was out of the woods, and should recover fully within a few days. With one last look, John turned around to leave. Moriarty was still out there, and they had no way of knowing where or when he might strike next, but for now, Sherlock needed to rest, and John could use some sleep as well. They would deal with Moriarty when Sherlock got better.

As he walked out the door, John was stopped by a voice.

"Thank you John."

John turned, but the consulting detective was in the exact same position he had left him, giving no sign that he had spoken. None the less, John smiled, knowing in that moment, everything was back to normal.

* * *

**Tada! The final chapter of Pulse is now complete. I'd like to thank all of the readers that stuck with this story til the end. Especially those who reviewed. You guys made my day and motivated me to continue writing. **

**Though this story is now over, I am thinking about writing a sequel. However it is only in the idea stage, and if I write it, it probably won't come out for a while as I've got some other stories I'd like to start on. If you would like a sequel, feel free to let me know, or alternatively, if you feel that this story is better left as it is, you could say that too.**

**Thank you once again for reading! -ConsultingDetectiveOfGallifrey**


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